


Cranberry Waistcoats and Courting Rituals: A Primer on Plighting Troth (Dwarrow-Style)

by beetle



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, M/M, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-04 00:04:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5312147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt #27 at http://thilbo-prompt.tumblr.com/: Courting Thilbo prompt : When dwarrows wish to express an interest in courting they learn the other’s trade. Awkward Thorin trying to steal from Bilbo and Bilbo being confused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cranberry Waistcoats and Courting Rituals: A Primer on Plighting Troth (Dwarrow-Style)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [badskippy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/badskippy/gifts), [Papertigress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Papertigress/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: This is an everyone-lives AU. Hell, if you made it past the title, you’re golden :-)

The first thing to go missing was Bilbo’s favorite cranberry waistcoat (as well as the watch and fob he’d forgotten to take off it one tipsy night after dining—and drinking—with the Company).

 

Bilbo’s memories of that night were rather fuzzy, of course, like his feet. But he distinctly remembered the Company parting ways in the corridor outside of Thorin’s private dining room: Bifur and Bombur staggering off, laughing, Balin and Dori wandering toward the library, speaking rather sotto-voiced and seriously for two people who’d imbibed so very much. Gloin and Oin were arguing heatedly over some esoteric bit of Dwarrow history involving an ancestor of theirs. Bofur and Nori had disappeared together some time ago, and no surprise, there, as those two were often to be found—or not found—canoodling as if they’d never canoodled before.

 

Fili and his young archer, Esen, and Kili and Tauriel had stayed so late for politeness sake only, though it had been obvious that both couples had wanted to be off and alone with each other, much like Bofur and Nori. And they eventually went off to do just that, both couples heading off to the east wing of the royal quarters, where Fili and Esen made a right off the main corridor and Kili and Tauriel made a left.

 

Which had just left Bilbo, Ori, Dwalin, Dis, and Thorin standing around outside the dining hall, talking and laughing. And when, after some minutes, a natural silence fell among the remainder of the dining group, Ori had yawned and stretched, then blushed, glancing shyly at Dwalin, then away. Dwalin glanced at Ori a moment later, and cleared his throat.

 

“So,” Dwalin had said gruffly, hitching up his breeches and putting his hands on his hips. Bilbo, Dis, and Thorin had exchanged an amused glance that went entirely unnoticed by both Dwalin and Ori, thankfully. The former was stealing little glances at Ori, who was just noticing, and starting to blush even more deeply.

 

“Well.” Dwalin cleared his throat and glared off in the direction of Ori’s quarters. “I suppose I’ll walk you to your quarters, Master Ori. In the interests of you not getting lost on the way, in your inebriated state.”

 

“What?” Ori asked, obviously confused. He’d barely touched a drop, Bilbo had noticed. Too busy stealing longing glances at a certain Captain of Erebor’s guard. “But I haven’t even—”

 

“That’s an excellent idea, Dwalin. Very good of you to look out for our Ori,” Thorin had chimed in, his deep voice rumbling with amusement.

 

“Er, yes,” Bilbo had been quick to take up the refrain. “And it’s such a long, circuitous walk to Ori’s chambers—I, myself, get lost walking there all the time.”

 

“You do?” Now, Ori looked utterly ramskazzled. Not to mention spamjangled. “But my chambers are right across from yours—”

 

“Do have a lovely night, Ori. You, too, Dwalin,” Dis had interrupted playfully, waving as Dwalin determinedly took Ori’s hand and placed it on his arm. Dwalin gave her a stern, haughty look, then turned himself and Ori about and marched off, dragging Ori with him. The younger dwarf went without reluctance, but was still, obviously, very confused. He glanced back at Bilbo for some sort of explanation, but Bilbo merely shrugged, fighting a laugh.

 

When the pair turned a corner, Bilbo, Dis, and Thorin burst out laughing.

 

“Well!” Dis finally said, when the laughter had tapered off, her eyes ticking between Bilbo and Thorin. “I suppose I shall take that as my cue to seek my own bed. I wish you good night, Thorin. And you, as well, Master Baggins,” she added, kissing each of them on the cheek.

 

Then she, too, was gone. Without staggering or listing, despite having held her own with the male members of the Company when it came to the consumption of spirits (though Dis’ poison of choice was the sweet, strong wine that was imported from New Dale).

 

Which left, at last, just Bilbo and Thorin. All three of him.

 

“Oh, my,” Bilbo hiccupped quietly. “I should be off to bed, too. I’ve had more than my share of ale for one night.”

 

“Indeed,” Thorin agreed, smiling faintly. He offered Bilbo his arm when a single step in the direction Dwalin and Ori had gone resulted in Bilbo listing dangerously to the left.

 

Thorin, however, except for seeming rather relaxed, wasn’t in the least bit changed by his intoxication, as usual. He had the constitution of not just any Dwarrow, but of the _king_ of all Dwarrow, and of Durin’s heir.

 

They started off toward Bilbo’s chambers, which were in the exact opposite direction of Thorin’s, though not far. (In fact, Thorin had stated, when offering the hobbit those chambers that he wanted to keep his closest friend close.) And no matter how much he’d had to drink at the Company’s many dinners together, he always escorted his “dear Master Baggins” to his chambers.

 

Bilbo always invited Thorin in for tea, but Thorin always demurred.

 

Not so that night.

 

As Bilbo leaned on his door and gazed up at Thorin fondly, Thorin had smiled down at him just as fondly, hands clasped tightly behind his back like a man denying himself something he was at great pains to have.

 

“I would invite you in, my king, but I fear I already know your answer,” Bilbo had murmured. Thorin had smiled absently, glancing away.

 

“You might ask me again, tonight. Perhaps the answer will surprise you.”

 

“Will it?”

 

“There is only one way to find out.” Thorin’s blue eyes met Bilbo’s own, intent and intense.

 

Bilbo, still seeing three of everything, including his king, had bowed sloppily, nearly falling over in the process. Thorin had to catch him to save him from the marble floor. “My king . . . will you do me the honor of joining me for a cuppa in my chambers? It’s nothing fancy,” he warned, looking up into Thorin’s eyes as the dwarf-king righted him. “But it’s hot and good and the company is quite lovely, if I do say so, myself.”

 

“I would be honored to join you, Master Baggins,” Thorin said, his strong hands grasping Bilbo’s biceps to hold him up. His eyes were solemn, sparkling, searching. “I feel there is . . . much of which we must speak.”

 

“R-really?” Bilbo hiccupped again, his eyes widening as he realized he’d gotten a _yes_ to his invitation for the first time in the three years since they’d resettled Erebor. It was quite strange, the way his heart leapt up in his breast, as if it would dance a jig.

 

Thorin smiled. “Really, Master . . . _Bilbo_.”

 

Bilbo had blinked. “You called me Bilbo.”

 

“Yes,” Thorin had agreed, leaning closer, till Bilbo’s whole world was Thorin’s midnight-blue eyes and the strong scents of rare earths, leather, wool, and some masculine, heady scent that was all _Thorin_. “In fact,” he went on, pulling Bilbo closer, and Bilbo automatically closed his eyes. . . .

 

. . . only to open them hours later, in his own bed.

 

Alone, of course. . . .

 

Of course he was alone! Why would he be otherwise?

 

He’d been tucked in tightly, though at some point he’d half-kicked the covers off himself in the night. And someone, Thorin, likely, had divested him of his outerwear, leaving him in his plain shirt and sable trousers.

 

And when Bilbo, scratching his head and trying to remember what had happened after he’d closed his eyes, came up against a blank wall of nothing, he sighed, feeling oddly bereft. He couldn’t imagine why Thorin would have moved any closer, and yet . . . the thought of Thorin moving closer made Bilbo’s body flush and his fuzzy toes curl.

 

It was a full two days later before he noticed the cranberry waistcoat and watch-fob were missing.

 

He assumed he’d got some awful stain on it over the course of dinner two nights previous, and that a servant had put it in the laundry, not noticing the fob was still attached.

 

Mystery—probably—solved, Bilbo thought no more about it. After all, it wasn’t as if anyone would _steal_ the watch—a gift from Thorin, as were so many of Bilbo’s possessions, these days—after all. There was only _one_ burglar in Erebor, and his name was Bilbo Baggins.

 

#

 

The next thing to turn up vanished—the next _important_ thing, anyway . . . at least more important than Bilbo’s favorite socks, his fancy teapot that he used for company, the brilliantly detailed map of Arda Balin had gifted him with, and more–was Bilbo’s favorite walking stick.

 

He and Ori were going to New Dale for some fresh air and to catch up. In the weeks since he and Dwalin had become lovers, Ori and Bilbo hadn’t spent as much time together as they’d used to. Though admittedly, whenever Bilbo and Ori crossed paths, the young dwarf always looked rather pleasantly dazed and moony. As if he’d tripped on a root and fallen into a field of clover.

 

_That’s down to Dwalin, I suppose,_ Bilbo had thought as he’d turned his closet upside-down, then right side _up_ once more, still looking for the walking stick, which he _never_ put in his closet, but always kept near the door to his chambers with his other two walking sticks. _Oh, bollocks,_ where _did I put that blasted stick!_

 

Disgruntled, Bilbo had emerged from his closet to stand before Ori, who was staring besottedly into the banked fire in the main hearth, sitting in one of two chairs Bilbo had before the fireplace.

 

“Well, that’s bloody odd.”

 

Ori took his own sweet time looking up from the lack of fire to meet Bilbo’s eyes. “I’m sorry, what’s odd?”

 

Bilbo rolled his eyes and stalked over to the chair opposite Ori’s. “My walking stick’s turned up missing.”

 

“Hmm . . . did you check the closet?” Ori asked helpfully.

 

Bilbo rolled his eyes again. “Twice! And it’s not with the other two! It’s like my walking stick up and _walked off_ without _me_!”

 

Ori’s eyebrows lifted toward his ginger fringe. “Well . . . until you find it, why not use one of your other walking sticks? The other’ll turn up as soon as you stop looking for it. That’s the way of things.” He shrugged philosophically.

 

Sighing, Bilbo sat back in the chair and slouched down. “I know, I know, it’s just that—it’s my best, sturdiest walking stick. My _favorite_ , and. . . .”

 

“And?”

 

“Well,” Bilbo sighed once more. “It was a gift from Thorin. More than any of that other stuff, it was a gift from him, and I value it. It’s very . . . precious to me, Ori.”

 

“Ah . . . I’m sorry, Bilbo, I didn’t know,” Ori said, frowning, stroking his brief beard. Then his expression lightened. “Hang on a moment! Maybe _Thorin_ knows where the walking stick is!”

 

Bilbo blinked, then blushed. “Thorin? Why would he know? He’s never even been in my chambers!” And Bilbo once more thought of that night, three months ago, when Thorin had been so close and Bilbo had closed his eyes on something terribly important.

 

Now Ori frowned. “Yes, he has. I saw him coming in here, just the other night, after midnight. And it wasn’t the first time. I thought he was visiting you like he had all those other times.”

 

Bilbo gaped, his mind completely blank for long moments before he sputtered. “Well—well—wouldn’t it strike you as odd that Thorin was visiting me _after midnight_? Wouldn’t you wonder why and _ask me_?”

 

Now, Ori blushed, and looked away. “Yes. Well—no. Not really. I mean, I just thought. . . .”

 

“What?” Bilbo demanded, rather irate for no reason he could identify. “What did you think?”

 

Ori heaved a sigh. “I thought he was coming to visit you so late for the same reason Dwalin comes to _my_ _chambers_ after midnight, Bil.” Red as a beet, Ori met Bilbo’s eyes. “I thought it was because the two of you were, you know . . . finally lovers.”

 

Bilbo’s jaw dropped almost audibly. “ _What_?”

 

Ori shrugged again and Bilbo huffed, then stammered: “Thorin— _King Thorin_ and I are _not_ _lovers_!”

 

Ori blinked. “Not yet, you mean,” he said, smiling. “But soon, right? Before the leaves fall, right?”

 

Bilbo could only stare, flushing and blanching, hot then cold. Meanwhile, Ori was pouting.

 

“ _Hopefully_ by the time the leaves fall,” he said worriedly. “Dwalin and I want to win the Company’s betting pool.”

 

#

 

After that conversation, Bilbo didn’t feel much like going to New Dale, and gave Ori a raincheck on their walk.

 

The young dwarf was reluctant to go, but when Bilbo expressed that he needed time to think some things over, Ori simply nodded, smiling sympathetically. He’d clapped Bilbo’s shoulder and gone, closing the door quietly behind him, leaving Bilbo to slouch in his chair and brood.

 

#

 

So it was that the knock on the door several hours later took him by surprise.

 

Bilbo was still brooding over the fact that not only was Thorin— _King_ Thorin, Durin’s _heir_ —stealing random things from his rooms, but apparently the entire Company and Yavanna alone knew who else was placing bets on when he and Thorin would. . . .

 

_And we’d_ never! Bilbo reassured himself. Only that reassurance wasn’t so reassuring. In fact, it was downright depressing. It made Bilbo think of nothing so much as that night, which had haunted him for weeks and weeks, when Thorin had been so close, Bilbo’s entire universe had been Thorin’s beautiful, solemn eyes and rugged, musky scent.

 

Waking up in his own bed the morning after that—opening his eyes and seeing not Thorin’s eyes but the tapestry covering his wall—had been jarring and disappointing.

 

_I missed it!_ he’d thought—no, _railed_ down to the very depths of his soul. _I missed our moment because I was drunk and I passed out, and now . . . now, we’ll never have another chance to—to—_

 

Only Bilbo hadn’t been able to finish the thought. Hadn’t known what they’d never have another chance to do, only that it’d been something important. Something life-changing. Something _brilliant_.

 

Something that was probably once in a lifetime.

 

Now, Bilbo was sitting, face buried in his hands, lost in his own misery when he heard the gentle knock on the door.

 

“Er—ah—come in!” he called, sitting up and wiping his wet face. He pasted on a smile and stood, turning to face the door to his chambers. “Did you forget something, Ori?”

 

But the face that greeted him wasn’t Ori’s . . . it was Dis’.

 

“Oh! Lady Dis!” Bilbo bowed quickly. “How lovely to see you!”

 

“And you, Master Baggins,” Dis said, smiling. She was a vision in purple velvet, her dark curls tumbling around her shoulders and down her back, her luxuriant beard braided with precious stones. “I do hope I haven’t intruded at an awkward time?”

 

“Oh! No, no, not at all! Please, sit, sit!” Bilbo waved his hand at the chair opposite his own. Dis smiled and entered the chamber fully, sitting gracefully before the hearth.

 

“To what do I owe the honor of your visit? Is everything alright?” Bilbo kicked himself for sitting already, and jumped back up. “Oh, where are my manners? Would you like a cuppa or some fruit?”

 

Dis’ smile turned wry. “No, thank you, Master Baggins. I’ve just had an ample lunch and I’m still quite full. No, the reason I’ve dropped by was . . . I’d like to tell you a story.”

 

Bilbo blinked. Shook his head, sat, and said: “I beg your pardon?”

 

Dis’ ready smile turned into a grin. “A story, Master Baggins. If you have time for it, of course. If not, it can always wait on another day. But I think you’ll find this story of particular interest to you _now_.”

 

“Really?” Bilbo was quite puzzled, but quite willing to be distracted from his despair by any means necessary. “Alright, then I’m certainly glad to listen. Hobbits love a good story . . . does it have a happy ending?” he asked hopefully. Dis shrugged, a slight drawing in of her strong shoulders.

 

“That rather depends, doesn’t it?”

 

“On what?”

 

But she merely smiled and wouldn’t answer, instead choosing to start her story.

 

“Once upon a time,” she intoned like any natural story-teller. “There was a great king who ruled over a vast kingdom. And this king had everything anyone could desire, except one thing. And this one thing happened to be his heart’s greatest desire: an end to his seemingly eternal loneliness. . . .”

 

#

 

Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, heir of Durin, and King Under the Mountain, was a patient dwarf.

 

He’d waited decades to return to his lost homeland.

 

Decades to revenge himself on Azog the defiler.

 

Decades to claim his inheritance, and be the king he was bred to be.

 

Now, he had found something else worth waiting decades for, and . . . it was driving him insane just waiting till the end of the summer for his hopes in this matter to come to fruition!

 

As he sat in his office, looking over paperwork that could have easily waited till the morning, when he at least had Balin to be miserable with him—though not _so_ miserable lately, since he’d taken up with Dori . . . no, of late, Balin—who was, even at his worst, still fairly cheerful—was almost unbearably up-tempo—he couldn’t help brooding over the state of his personal life.

 

He’d done everything he could to prove himself worthy of the affections of Master Baggins, whom Thorin had long since suspected was his One. He’d given up the Arkenstone because Bilbo had asked it of him. He’d made peace with Bard and Thranduil, because Bilbo expected it of him. And he’d even let Kili marry Tauriel simply because Bilbo had sighed wistfully when Kili had first approached Thorin with his intentions to make the elven maid his wife.

 

Thorin had spread the wealth of Erebor to New Dale, the rebuilt Laketown, and beyond, in an effort to do the right thing. And that not because Bilbo asked it, expected it, or wanted it, but because he knew that only in doing the right thing, in being truly generous, could he be made worthy of the burglar who’d burgled nothing so much as he’d burgled Thorin’s heart and soul.

 

(And, some might say, his mind.)

 

When all of that seemed to get him no farther into the hobbit’s good graces than friendship, Thorin had resorted to the old style of courtship favored by many Dwarrow, still.

 

In the pursuit of his One, Thorin had taken an interest in and shown quite the aptitude for burglary. Clothing, walking sticks, books, a teapot, and personal items of every stripe.

 

But it had been three months since he’d taken the first item: a striking cranberry waistcoat that Bilbo couldn’t help but notice was missing—and in which, Thorin’s hobbit looked utterly ravishing—and yet, Bilbo had done nothing about it. Had neither demanded the items back, signaling that he wanted no part of the courtship, nor praised Thorin’s skill at burglary, which would mean tacit approval of Thorin’s attempt at courtship.

 

In fact, nothing had changed about Thorin and Bilbo’s relationship, except that it got tougher for Thorin to hide his feelings. His yearning.

 

_Perhaps . . . perhaps he cannot decide whether or not he wants to be courted by me,_ Thorin thought for the thousandth time, as he read the same clause of the same contract over for the _forty-third_ time. _Or perhaps . . . perhaps he’s simply trying to figure out a kind way to let me down. That_ would _be his way. A gentle heart such as Master Baggins’ would never be hurtful._ Has _never been hurtful, even when I was at my worst toward him._

_And I_ have _been awful to him. In the past, yes, but still. I suppose it’s no wonder he hasn’t even acknowledged my attempts to court him. I’m lucky he even considers me a friend. I should be content with that, and not look for more where there can_ be _no more. No,_ he told himself. _It’s time I stopped these silly, ridiculous courtship rituals, replaced Master Baggins’ belongings the next time he’s out, and hope he’s not too repulsed by my ham-fisted attempts to woo him to continue our friendship._

Yet Thorin could not help but think of that night he’d almost kissed Master Baggins . . . the way the hobbit had felt in his arms, warm and weighty and _right_ , passed out though he was. Thorin had carried Master Baggins into his chambers, maneuvered him out of his jacket and waistcoat, and put him to bed.

 

Standing there, holding the jacket and cranberry waistcoat, he’d been overtaken by a feeling as sharp and yearning as it was dull and heavy, as he watched Master Baggins snore his way to dreamland. Thorin was awestruck, and as such, had stood there till the chiming of the clock had hastened him on his way out. He’d paused to hang up the jacket on one of the hooks near the door . . . but instead of putting the waistcoat on a hook beside it, that waistcoat had come with him.

 

As had quite a lot of things over the ensuing three months.

_No more,_ Thorin swore to himself. _It is done._

And telling himself that, Thorin settled in to business with a sigh, applying himself to the task with a vengeance. Until there was a knock on the door to his chambers.

 

Tearing his eyes away from the contract—if Bard thought he could out-fox a dwarf when it came to contract negotiations, he hadn’t learned much in his three years as king of New Dale and Laketown—Thorin got up from his desk and strode out to his main room, past the hearth, and to the doors leading to the corridor.

 

When he opened them, there stood Master Bilbo Baggins, dressed in his old traveling clothes and holding his wee letter-opener, Sting—which was not, thankfully, glowing blue—and smiling hopefully, haplessly.

 

He was . . . simply _everything_.

 

“Hello,” Master Baggins said breathlessly. And Thorin frowned, but instantly waved him in. The hobbit scurried in quickly, nervously, as if he thought Thorin might change his mind.

 

“Good evening, Master Baggins . . . this is a rare surprise . . . how may I help you?” Thorin asked, watching Bilbo take in his chambers. Despite Thorin’s many excursions to Bilbo’s chambers, Bilbo had never been to Thorin’s.

 

And until Thorin could return Master Baggins’ things, Bilbo would certainly never make it in deeper than the main room. As it stood, Thorin had Bilbo’s things scattered all over his bedchamber, in such a way that it looked as if Bilbo was living in them, as well.

 

Completely ludicrous, of course, but it’d given Thorin hope, once upon a time. Now . . . not so much.

 

“Well,” Master Baggins was saying slowly. “I was wondering if you might teach me swordplay.”

 

Thorin’s eyebrows lifted. “Teach you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Swordplay?”

 

“Exactly.”

 

Thorin gaped and blinked. “Right now?”

 

“Er . . . not necessarily,” Master Baggins claimed, though he looked glumly at Sting and sheathed it only reluctantly. “I just meant, you know, at some point, you might, if you have the time, teach me about formal swordplay.”

 

And Thorin, of course couldn’t say no—not even taking into account that hopeful look on Bilbo’s round, ruddy face. “Certainly, Master Baggins, I can teach you whenever you like, barring business or governing concerns. But I am curious as to why, with our questing done and you safe in Erebor . . . why now?”

 

Master Baggins smiled a brilliant smile that lit up his lovely hazel eyes, as if all that’d been wanting was for Thorin to ask him that very question.

 

“Well, the thing is,” he said, moving closer to Thorin. “I heard the most interesting tale, today.”

 

“Is that so?”  Thorin was confused. And distracted with Master Baggins’ nearness. His whole world was hazel eyes and a gentle scent like green, growing things, old books, and the mild elvish soap Master Baggins favored.

 

“Yes, it is. Would you like to hear the tale?”

 

“I, er—” Thorin could feel Master Baggins’ body heat and, this close, could see flecks of amber, grey, green, and gold in his eyes.

 

“It’s a tale of a king, who wanted to court a burglar, so one day, he started burgling things—waistcoats, watches, walking sticks, all sorts of things—from the burglar’s chambers, in an effort to prove himself worthy, to prove his interest, and to prove his love. Isn’t that silly?”

 

Thorin’s eyes widened and he swallowed, blanching, as his heart sank in his breast. “Really . . . that’s a, er, very . . . silly thing for a king to do, but unfortunately I was going over an important document when you—”

 

“Of course, the silly part isn’t the _effort_ ,” Master Baggins went on as if Thorin hadn’t spoken. “No, the effort is well-appreciated, if not well-placed. The _silly_ part is that this king embarked on the traditional courtship ritual of his people without taking into consideration that his burglar would have _no bloody clue_ why the king was stealing from him. Or that the king was the one who was doing the stealing . . . isn’t that _so silly_?”

 

And gazing into Master Baggins’— _Bilbo’s_ —eyes, Thorin could only gape again. Gape, nod, and agree. “Yes. Very silly.”

 

“Mm, because this buglar would have no idea about such stylized courting rituals from another culture, nor would he even recognize such an overture toward himself had he known that such a courting ritual existed. And you know why?” When Thorin shook his head no, Bilbo grinned. “Because the king’s burglar isn’t _really_ a burglar, after all, is he?”

 

Thorin felt his own grin beginning, stretching wide from ear to ear, practically. “Oh, I’m afraid on that I’d have to disagree,” he said, leaning closer, himself, till he and Bilbo were sharing air. “For anyone who’d so successfully stolen the heart and soul of a king who guarded both more than he guarded his gold, is a master burglar of the first water.”

 

Bilbo blushed and looked away for a moment. But a moment, only. When his eyes met Thorin’s again, he placed his hands on Thorin’s chest, sliding them up to Thorin’s shoulders. Thorin took that as his cue to place his hands on Bilbo’s waist and pull the hobbit against him.

 

“Well, I suppose we can agree to disagree on that,” he said magnanimously, tilting his face up to Thorin’s. “But from now on, I think it’s best, in the interests of my wardrobe and my personal affects, that _I_ do that courting, from now on. You’ll teach me all about swordplay—” here, Bilbo’s brows arched at the double entendre “—and I’ll show the appropriate interest in learning your trade and craft. Deal?”

 

“Deal, Master Baggins,” Thorin murmured as his lips brushed Bilbo’s, then pressed them more firmly, occasioning a soft, hungry moan from Bilbo that Thorin echoed.

 

It was sometime later that Bilbo came up for air and panted on Thorin’s lips. “Oh, by the way . . . since _I’m_ courting _you_ , now . . . may I have my cranberry waistcoat back?”

 

END


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